


Differences

by rubbishfromAlice



Category: Captain America, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bottom!Bucky, M/M, One Shot, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Stucky - Freeform, Swearing, top!steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4785728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubbishfromAlice/pseuds/rubbishfromAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War changes people, Bucky knew that (hell, he probably knew better than anyone) but one thing he always found comfort in was that Steve would always be the same, waiting for him when he got home. But war changes people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Differences

Bucky had a potty mouth, he could admit it. He knew he needed to have his mouth washed out with soap every evening after he'd spent the day spewing profanities when and where he saw fit. Bucky was no saint and he knew it, and he tried to reign it in, honest, but sometimes the long days would get to him and throwing a 'fuck' or a 'bullshit' around every few minutes eased some of the tension in the air.

Maybe it was because of the guys he worked with. Down at the dock Bucky was surrounded by dirty old men and cheeky young fellas who had no troubles speaking their mind, especially if a pretty dame walked past or even if they were just having a shitty day, they would tell you about it in no polite way.

That's what Bucky chalked it up to anyway, feigning innocence when his profanities earned him a unimpressed frown from Steve as they ate dinner at night. 

Steve didn't hate swearing, the kid let a few indecent words fall out of his mouth every now and again, but he was normally pretty vanilla. Now, Bucky was by no means vulgar -well not around Steve- but he did have a more diverse flare in his everyday vernacular that Steve was sometimes disapproving of. 

Steve would hiss out a curse when he stubbed his knobbly knee against the corner of the coffee table, or grumble a few dirty names under his breath as he walked home from one of the back alleys he was all too familiar with, blood on his knuckles and a bruise on his cheek. But he never went out of his way to swear for the sake of emphasis or humour, which was what Bucky liked about him. 

Steve was different from the monkey men Bucky was exposed to everyday. There was a gentleness and a wisdom about Steve that put him above the rough and unrefined men that littered the streets of New York. Bucky liked coming home every evening to a clean apartment and the scent of homemade stew.

Steve would smile at him as he set their plates down and they would eat together contently. Bucky would talk about his day at work and Steve would listen closely, laughing or asking questions and it was like a breath of fresh air, literally and figuratively. The smell of sea and cigarettes would be thick in his nose, the sound of raucous work chit chat echoing in his ears while the strain of a long days work weighed heavily on Buckys shoulders. Until he walked in the door and saw Steve, who represented the complete opposite of what Bucky had been surrounded by all day. Combed hair and clean hands, save for the odd smudge of charcoal that told Bucky that Steve had been drawing that day.

Sometimes it was a simple sketch of one of the windows visible from the kitchen table, or maybe a quick doodle of a pair of shoes left abandoned in a corner. But sometimes, Bucky would come home and see what looked to be a masterpiece, ready for display in a great art show to be admired by the whole world. The tall buildings that bordered their apartment, the old lady who lived below sitting outside smoking a cigarette. The lines and shades creating emotion and depth that made Bucky feel something funny in his chest, and he'd look at his little friend Steve who was so talented and so brilliant and deserved so much more than a show, he deserved an entire museum in the centre of the city dedicated to the life and skills of Steven Grant Rogers. 

Bucky would sigh and place the drawing on the table and mumble "Damn Stevie, like fuckin' Da Vinci in here." Which would make Steve look down while his ears grew pink, saying nothing except to maybe scold Bucky on his language. "Thanks Buck, I'm sure Leonardo Da Vinci would be thrilled by that comparison." 

When they would make love Bucky was all talk, Steve sometimes thought he got off to the sound of his own voice muttering filthy words. Steve was more reserved. He would grunt and groan and sigh like there was no tomorrow, he'd whisper Bucky's name under his breath as he looked down at the man sprawled beneath him. It was only when he was about to come that Steve would finally give in, quickening his pace as he pulled Bucky closer to him. "Shit Bucky." "Fuck fuck f-fuck f-uck" "like that, y-yeah so fuckin' -awh! Buck!" And with a long choked out gasp following his string of profanities, Steve would come shaking, gripping Buckys hips tightly.  
And that just pushed Bucky over the fucking edge. Seeing Steve's mouth form the words, completely out of his control, his face twisted in pleasure as he would come hard and fast, his obscene groans pushing Bucky to his own climax.

That's what Bucky liked to think about after he shipped out. Steve at home living his life like he always did, his life moving forward happily. Steve was home and thinking of him made Bucky remember what he was out here fighting for.

He knew he was safe, though the poor bastard would be out here in a second guns blazing if he had it his way, and Bucky sends thanks to the heavens every night because Steve isn't here. He doesn't have to live this. His delicate hands were meant to create life with his art, not death with a rifle. His pale skin should be warm and wrapped in blankets every night, not covered in dirt and blood and sweat, reeking of despair. Steve was too good and too pure for this place, and Bucky would stay fighting until his last day if it would mean Steve got to stay safe. 

 

The letters were a source of comfort, and Bucky kept them in his jacket pocket tied together with string, every one, right over his heart. Steves writing was neat and small and easy to read, written on clean paper that Bucky knew had been ripped from one of his notebooks. Bucky felt almost embarrassed when he posted his replies. The paper often looked like little more than an old scrap, water stained and smudged with mud. His writing was readable sure, if you had the time to sit down and give it a long hard look. He often wrote in a rush, desperate to finish as he sat with the men of his team, all of them jeering and poking fun at Bucky as he wrote back. 

"You writing a book there, Barnes?" One man would call out snickering.

"Nah I think he's writin' a little poem, somethin' real pretty for his lady." Bucky would laugh with them and tell where they could all go if they had a problem, but his palms would sweat as he tried to hide his words from his peering eyes. Eventually he stopped putting Steves name on the envelopes, and simply put S. Rogers above the address of their dingy little apartment. 

"So what's here name anyway?" A voice murmured one night. It was dark, and it was difficult to distinguish who had spoken. Bucky held a cigarette between his teeth, flicking his lighter open and closed until he finally brought the flame to his face. He took a long drag and let his eyes drift shut.

"Why, you thinkin' of headin' down to Brooklyn? Need a girl to keep you warm at night?" Bucky drawled. He heard a few scattered chuckles. 

"No. Not unless you're offering?" 

"I'm not, so get it out of your head soldier." And that was that. The night was silent again. Though Bucky could hear his heart hammering in his chest.  _If they knew bout you Barnes you can forget ever coming home. The Germans will be the last of your problems._

 

 

 

It had been so long, so so long and Bucky had lost count, the days and nights moulding together inside his mind as his thoughts were covered by fog. What day was it? Where was that breeze coming from? Were those footsteps or the sound of his heart pounding in his chest? Was that rain or his own blood dripping down onto the floor?

He remembered the early days, his throat still felt raw from his fruitless screams and shouts and curses, Steve would have blushed crimson if he'd heard him, maybe flicking his ear and huffing a sigh. _Sorry Stevie.  
_

But that was gone now, Bucky was tired and weak, his voice scratchy and broken as he spoke. _Sergeant  James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038. _Sergeant  James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038. _Sergeant  James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038. _Sergeant  James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038. _Sergeant  James Buch-_____

"Bucky...oh my God." and now for the cruellest torture of all, because he wasn't meant to be here, he was never meant to be here and they knew that. Bucky had heard Steve's voice speak softly in his ear more times than he could count, sometimes he even saw his stupid face, smiling down at him and telling him everything would me okay. It was the most painful thing they could ever do to him. Worse than the injections, worse than the blades, worse than the electricity, to taunt him with Steve was more painful than all of that combined. _Steve's home. He's safe. He won't ever be here._ But then the tightness around his legs and torso gave way and there was Steve's face, looking down on him. 

"It's me, it's Steve." It looked like Steve, it sounded like Steve but there's no way it could be Steve, right? But he was so solid, right in front of his eyes and it must be, it must be this time or else Bucky really has lost it.

"Steve...Steve." His hands were on him then, actually touching him as he was lifted off the rickety table and placed shakily on his feet. This Steve was different. No no no he was so sure it was really him this time. But Bucky looked into his eyes and not even his imagination could create an image quite like it. Those were Steves eyes, no doubt, realer than anything he'd been subjected to in the fast few weeks. 

"I thought you were dead." What was Bucky going to say to that?  _I thought you were home, Stevie. I thought you were safe back home._

"I thought you were smaller."

 

 

 

How did they make it out? How did they survive? How were they walking away with the heat of the burning factory warming their backs? Bucky didn't know. Hell, he was barely putting one foot in front of the other without tipping over. But Steve was beside him, his arm slung over his shoulders as they walked away free. But it was so different. Bucky could remember a thousand and one times they had held each other straight as they stumbled through the streets of Brooklyn, tipsy and light after a few too many at the local bar. Back then Steve was little, and Bucky felt bad as anything as Steve's little twig arms held the two of them steady. Not now though. Now Steve was tall and strong and firm, walking for the two of them like it was nothing. 

They were walking for who knows how long, and the men were getting real tired but no one said anything, cause they knew where they were going and hell if they were gonna stop. Bucky knew they had a long walk ahead of them but he also knew that they were on their way to beds, blankets and food, and the rumble in his stomach was enough to keep his legs moving. 

 

The sun had gone down just over an hour ago, and they had all decided it was best for them to stop and gather themselves, get some well earned rest. But Bucky just lay on the ground, his head resting uncomfortable against a bumpy log, his eyes trained on the clearing of trees above him. 

"M'sorry Buck." Steve's voice cut through the night. 

Bucky let his gaze wander to where Steve was sitting, his elbows resting on his knees as he carved absentmindedly at a block of wood. Bucky wished he was closer, wished he was lying next to him so he could feel his heart beat, steadier than it had ever been, and listen to the sound of his clear breaths, devoid of any wheezing. He knew why it was this way though. He understood and he'd live with it. 

"Whatchu gotta be sorry for? You saved our asses back there." Bucky mumbled, feigning fatigue. Truth me told, Bucky wasn't tired at all. Sure, after a long day walking through woods and dirt roads his legs would ache and he'd want to sit down, but sleep was something Bucky felt he neither needed or desired. He would just lie awake and listen to the snores and grumbles of the men around him, his eyes never drooping, his hand on his rifle. 

"I shoulda been there sooner. I coulda...God dammit I coulda gotten you out weeks ago if I had just asked Phillips for your fuckin' name." Bucky blinked at the harsh words escaping Steve's lips. The kid always had a temper, but it normally surfaced in the form of swinging fists and kicking feet, and hand on heart he had never heard Steve use the lords name in vain. He smirked a little, glancing towards Steve's broad figure hunched over in the moonlight. 

"Steve-"

"Bucky you were...you were strapped down to a fucking table! There was blood on the-" His voice was an angry whisper, and Bucky shifted so that he could place a hand on Steve's ankle, careful not to move too much and disturb the sleeping bodies around him. He knew he needed to be discrete, Steve may have saved their lives but there are some who wouldn't take too kindly to being lead by someone like him. Steve's leg tensed slightly at his touch, but relaxed as Bucky's fingers traced soothing circles against his skin.

"You saved me, Stevie. I was almost gone, ready to call it a day." Steve's hand was in his hair then, leaning down and combing through his greasy locks. "Till I saw your ugly mug starin' down at me. Swear I thought that was it, thought I was halfway up to the pearly gates. But it was really you. You got me and all these fellas outta that hell hole in one piece and I'll be damned if you live your life not knowing you're my fuckin' hero Steve Rogers." Bucky's could taste the salt of his tears as they fell silently down his cheeks. He couldn't see Steve, he was just looking down at the ground with his hand resting softly against the skin on Steve's leg. 

"Bucky-"

"My hero." Bucky repeated, staying still for another few moments before shifting back to his old position, head against the log, hand on his rifle, only this time his eyes felt heavy with the pull of sleep. He let himself drift off with the memory of Steve's skin on his fingers and the feeling hands roaming through his hair.  _My fuckin' hero._

 

 

 

"Bucky. Bucky!" Bucky's eyes snapped open and he sat up so fast his head was spinning. He pulled his rifle onto his lap and was ready to pull the trigger when he saw Steve's face gazing down at him. It was still dark out, the slightest hint of sun shining weakly through the trees. There were no birds singing or soldiers talking, just the sounds of men dreaming deeply in the silence of the woods.

"What's wrong?" Steve pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and Bucky felt his muscles relax. He hadn't seen that look in so long and he couldn't help but let his mouth quirk up at the side. Steve jerked his head off in some direction before standing quickly and stepping through the maze of dormant bodies that surrounded them. It took Bucky less than 5 seconds to clear his head before he was up too, following Steve further into the woods, the smell of the burnt out camp-fire fading as they walked. 

Finally Steve stopped and turned to look at Bucky, who's stomach had been doing flips as he watched Steve lead him into the secluded woodland. Steve looked down at him and God, that was something to get used to. Bucky suspected what was coming, and nervous anticipation made his knees quiver slightly. 

As Bucky stood in front of Steve, eye level with his chin, he gazed up through his lashes and nearly bucked right then. Steve's stare was almost predatory. His hands found Bucky's hips and held him firmly, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. 

"Missed you." Bucky spoke first. voice was low scratchy. He smiled a little and stepped forward slightly and they were now toe to toe, closer than they'd been in days and Bucky was nearly buzzing. Steve's fingers presses into his hips and pulled Bucky against him, and Bucky had to stop himself from groaning at the contact. He wanted to move, wanted to grind against Steve's body, desperate for friction, desperate to feel Steve against him again. 

Steve let his head dip and he rested his forehead against Bucky's, breathing in long and deep. Bucky could almost hear his internal monologue, debating with himself about whether or not he should go further or just backtrack, just forget about it. Bucky knew because he had been having that same battle every single day. He'd stopped himself from brushing his hand against Steve's as they walked, or letting their knees rub together as they sat and rested by the fire. He knew what Steve wanted, and fuck if Bucky didn't want it too. 

"Missed this." Steve said, leaning forward as he spoke, letting his words play against the exposed skin of Bucky's neck. He felt Steve's hands dig into his skin as he moved his hips slightly. "Missed feeling you." His hands wound into Bucky's hair, grabbing onto the shaggy brown locks. "Missed hearing you." A quick and sudden buck of Steve's hips against Bucky's caused him to let out a low grunt, and Steve smirked at the blush that began to creep up on Bucky's cheeks. 

Bucky was slightly baffled by this, he was so used to taking the lead, to getting Steve rock hard with his words alone, but now it was Steve who was eager and teasing. It made Bucky harder than he cared to admit. 

"You coulda got yourself any girl, lookin like you do." Bucky purred, bringing his fingers up behind Steve's neck and letting his nails drag against his skin. Steve shook his head and furrowed his brows.

"Don't want a girl. Want you." He hands crept around Bucky's waist and went down until they were resting just about the waistband of Bucky's ill fitting trousers. Bucky was nearly screaming. He wanted Steve to have him right then and there. He didn't know how Steve lasted when they'd been together before, with Bucky's love of dirty talk and teasing. The fact that they were still clothed right now was some kind of sick joke in Bucky's mind. 

"Take me." Steve didn't need so much as another syllable before his lips were on Bucky's, fast and hunger. Their mouths opened together and their tongues met in the middle sloppily. It wasn't a sweet, romantic kiss, it was pure, unadulterated lust. They needed each other, after being apart for so long they shared a mutual longing to connect again, and in their desperation all formalities were discarded. 

Steve's hands were down Bucky's trousers before they were even unbuttoned, and Bucky felt like he had an electrical current running through his veins. The familiarity of Steve's hand on him was something Bucky needed more than anything, and although Steve may be different in stature, he was still the same in method. He knew how to work Bucky well and quickly. They knew they didn't have time, but that didn't matter. What mattered was Steve's tongue against his lips, Steve's skin against his skin and Steve's breath mixing with Bucky's breath. 

Bucky wanted to lie down and give himself to Steve, but the sun was rising and so were the men. So he Steve jerk him rough and fast with his trousers around his knees, while Bucky bit into Steve's fleshy shoulder, holding himself up as he shook, feeling his orgasm approach. 

"Steve..Steve I-" 

"Come on baby." And Bucky was gone, knees quivering as he muffled his groan against Steve's chest. He was breathless, and stood for a moment just breathing in Steve's scent as he recovered. His legs were shaky and he felt unsteady as he pulled his trouser back up, noticing that a button had popped clean off. He laughed a little breathlessly as Steve smiled down at him, his hands back on his hips, just holding him. But Bucky could feel Steve straining against his trousers, and without a word he dropped to his knees, eagerly undoing the more complicated fastenings on his pants. 

Steve's cock was rock hard and red, but Bucky barely registered any of it before he took him all in his mouth in one quick motion. Steve choked out a little sob at the sudden warmth, and entwined his fingers in Bucky's hair. Bucky tried to suppress his own moan at the feeling of Steve inside him. He knew he wasn't far off, and all he wanted to do was take his time. He wanted to take Steve down slowly, let his tongue press against his entire length, circle around the head, do everything he knew drove Steve insane. He wanted to bring him to the edge and pull him back. He wanted Steve to writhe and squirm and curse.

But they weren't in Brooklyn. They weren't in their shitty apartment on their creaking bed, laughing at the sounds of the old bed springs. They were in the middle of a war. They were two men who were beaten and bruised and tired and who needed a certain kind of comfort they could only find with each other. Even though Bucky hated how this felt, on his knees in the shadows, it was what he needed, and it was what Steve needed. So he worked him quickly. Bobbing his head fast and taking what he couldn't fit in his mouth in his hand, working his tongue sloppily and in a way that just was not Bucky's style. 

And when Steve came he pulled Bucky's hair between his fingers, which made Bucky roll his eyes backwards and take everything Steve was giving him. He stayed licking and sucking until Steve was wrecked and breathing heavily, before pulling his pants back up and fastening them. Steve helped him stand and they looked at each other. They both wished it could be different. That they could make love slowly and take care of each other, but it couldn't be that way.

But they were both here, alive and safe. So looking at each other gave them hope, something to remember and something to look forward to. They had their time before the war and they'll have their time after. 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Y'know when you start writing a fic with a set plot in mind, then you just lose it and ramble? That's what happened here.


End file.
